For about ten minutes, I lay on the stone floor, spreading my arms wide. My breathing was irregular; my mouth was parched, and my legs felt weak like they were made of cotton, yet so heavy as if they were cast from lead. But despite all this weakness, I was shaking like an autumn leaf in a fresh breeze. Overestimating my strength had almost cost me my life. Perhaps the "past me" was used to such a risk, but I, the present one, was not ready for such a close encounter with death.

With difficulty, I turned my head to look at the defeated orc warrior. This undead creature almost killed me! Anger gave me strength, and I managed to sit up. After that, I quickly took the flask off my belt and, lifting the mask a bit, moistened my throat. I immediately felt a little better.

"Pf-f-f-f-f," I exhaled abruptly through tightly clenched lips. Then I took a deep breath and again, "Pf-f-f-f-f."

It might seem like the simplest breathing exercise, but it calms the nerves just about as well as a heartfelt abusive tirade. After taking a couple more big swigs, I put the flask back on my belt and got to my feet.

This dungeon hadn't Reset for over two centuries. That's damn long by Ain's standards. Unbelievably long. Of the usual dungeons not hidden by Sacred barriers and still unknown for this reason, only those located on the Tyberian Plateau haven't been Reset for so long.

Two centuries! Two hundred years! Even a little more - Larindel had given the exact date, but I didn't remember it. From a standard dungeon, one can usually extract nothing more than the primary dungeon resource, ordinary mob loot, and some rare ingredient from the boss. But places that have been "stewing in their own juice" for so long are an exception to this rule.

This thought got me to my feet. Greed and the thirst for profit can even raise the dead!

The first thing I inspected was the boss's weapons. Two Celtic-style swords made of ordinary steel. Worthless. What about his clothes? What kind of armor did he have? Just a standard direwolf pelt thrown over his shoulders and cinched with a wide leather belt similar to mine. Nevertheless, I checked the hide too. Its magical aura was normal. Another miss.

Am I really so unlucky that after clearing a two-hundred-year-old dungeon, I won't even get the tiniest artifact? How can that be? Why is it so unfair?!

Then my gaze fell on a solid rope, about the thickness of my index finger, which was coiled around the boss's neck. Tugging it harder, I pulled out an orcish amulet that enhances abilities based on the Green Fury of Spirit. This item was brimming with the winds of Spirit and looked like an artifact.

"What a piece of bad luck!" I shouted, throwing the amulet into a corner of the hall.

This item was not only useless to me but also dangerous. Other races can't use orc artifacts; they instead bring a curse for foreigners. It's even risky to disassemble such amulets for alchemical reagents. A pity. I had hoped to gain not only an Elevation in this expedition but also to find a useful artifact. But apparently, it was not to be.

With that thought, I looked again at the body of the orc warrior. He was only left with his holey, roughly made boots, and a wide belt. Orcs are generally minimalists when it comes to clothing. A pelt over the shoulders, a hide covering the most private parts, a clan belt, something on the feet to protect against sharp stones – that's all they need.

Overcoming a wave of disgust, I took off the defeated boss's boots. Then inspected them. Worthless.

Finally, I stripped the orc of his belt, as wide as a hand, made from the thick and durable leather of a mountain yak. The stomach area was reinforced with a piece of a manticore hide. A massive buckle without a single symbol was made from wootz steel. This item wasn't an artifact, it had no aura of Magic or Spirit. But nevertheless, it was better than the belt I was currently wearing. And the attachment rings matched up. Taking off my belt, I tried on this one. The orc was, of course, much stouter and bulkier than me, but because I wore a gambeson and chain mail, the belt fit as if it was custom-made for me. And the moment I tightened it and fastened the buckle, I "remembered"!

The "past me" saw similar belts when he spent nearly two weeks naked, hiding on the Tyberian plateau. Hastily, I took it off and inspected the inside. Sure enough! The golden seal of the "Evil Moon" clan was found without difficulty! Fearing to scare off good fortune, I put on the belt again and activated the aura of "Perception."

"Yes!!!" My joyful cry echoed through the dungeon.

This belt was not an artifact in the full sense of the word. It was not a permanently enchanted magical or spiritual object. This item was made with a different technology, unknown to humans. Artifactors or alchemists did not create it. Magi did not enchant it. It was the product of shamanic rituals of the orc clan Evil Moon.

The Belt of Seguna's Pure Gaze!

If I had told about its properties to Flavius, Ilona, or Miranda, the earthlings wouldn't have understood my joy. They would have taken these properties for granted. But I was more than happy! This belt enhanced the "Perception" aura by one and a half times and allowed me to see strong mana flows with this active aura. An invaluable item in a duel with any mage! Moreover, it wasn't a full-fledged artifact by Ain's classification. Also, the orcs believe that these belts bring their owners luck, but I had no confirmation of this. And the previous owner definitely didn't receive any luck from it - that's an indisputable fact.

Approaching the corpse of the orc warrior, I adjusted my new belt and looked at the dead warrior with a slightly different gaze. Now I understand why my opponent was so powerful, regardless of his status as a zombie. In life, he was not just a warrior. He was a nob, that is, a representative of the ruling branch of the clan. A sort of orcish aristocrat, only they wear such belts.

Lovingly stroking my upgrade, I slung my pouches and purses onto it.

The dungeon has been cleared, the boss has been laid to rest, but that's not all. The main task remained, actually the reason why I came here. It was necessary to disincarnate the altar of the dark god entirely.

Shivering from the sudden irrational fear, I still took the first step towards the main hall of the dungeon.

According to Larindel's story, the true altar of the Plague God was destroyed by the priests of the Pantheon. But during the ritual, something went wrong, and "part of the altar's power went into the island's dungeon, thereby Defiling it," this was the description of the problem voiced by the captain of the "Defector."

I don't know, did the Sidhe half-blood knowingly lie to me, or did he himself not know the nuances? Why did he lie? Because you can't "partially" destroy a true altar. It's like being a little pregnant. The altar either exists or doesn't. There are no intermediate states, and there can't be. Most likely, the priests destroyed the physical embodiment of the altar, its form, but couldn't erase its spiritual essence. And this essence is the very substance, while the physical shell is far less important; it's just protection, nothing more. And during that ritual, five priests of the Precious coil level died. The physical form of altars is their stronghold, armor, protective perimeter. The priests destroyed this form but couldn't reach the Spiritual Heart. This "Spiritual Heart" is what I found in the central hall of the dungeon.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A dense clump of foul-smelling fog in the shape of a large cauldron. A cauldron in which it seemed as if someone was still brewing poisons and diseases. Even looking at IT was disgusting. The whole body started to itch as soon as you focused on this foul mist. A remarkably nasty thing, causing such a strong instinctive revulsion that even standing next to it is a huge test of will.

The destruction of a true altar is, in essence, a sentence to the executor. The wrath of even a Fallen Deity will be so strong that mortal shoulders won't bear such a burden. I wonder, did Larindel understand that he was sending me to certain death?

And since he didn't know all my achievements, he couldn't have guessed that the destruction of Nulgle's altar wouldn't cause me much harm. However, he might not have known what consequences happen to those who allow themselves such blasphemy as destroying a true altar. Such nuances are only known to the top of the priesthood, and they are in no hurry to share this knowledge.

I have to be more cautious with this elf; he has lived a hundred years and certainly knows what intrigue is, how to set up a neighbor, and especially how to rake in the heat with other people's hands. Larindel is such a good actor that even now I don't understand, did he know about the threat to me or not?

Pondering this question, I took the necessary ingredients for the ritual from my backpack and began to arrange them around the Foulness, according to the instructions. To destroy an altar devoid of a physical component is quite simple. You just need to know what and how to do it. Since Larindel was the guardian of the island of Gnur, he had the corresponding instructions left by the Pantheon priests. The captain of the "Defector" passed them to me along with the necessary ingredients.

I didn't know and didn't understand why I was placing this particular candle made of beef tallow in this corner, and this mountain crystal, sprinkled with the blood of a righteous man, in another. Most likely, there was some deep metaphysical meaning in it, but it was inaccessible to me and generally unimportant. The main thing is that the instructions were correct, and everything worked out. Half an hour later, all the preparations were completed. All I had to do was cut my palm and let my blood flow along the lines of the magic weave, the pattern that linked all the reagents I had laid out into a single network.

"May my blood be filled with True Light, may Darkness disappear!"

To me, it's too pompous and superficial, but these words need to be said, and I say them just when the first drop of my blood falls on the magical figure.

"In the name of Antares, by the will of the Sun itself!.."

I talk for a long time while my blood runs along the lines, while it fills them. And I fall silent when the entire magic pattern turns red. I fall silent only for a second to draw breath, after which I yell at the top of my lungs:

"Let there be Light!"

As soon as the final words of the prayer are uttered, my blood, spilled over the drawing, flares up, not with fire, but with the brightest light, so blinding that I stop seeing. A deafening ring nearly ruptures my eardrums, and I go deaf. A powerful shock wave knocks me off my feet.

"I should have bought a helmet after all!" This thought was sane, but it came too late. The back of my head hits something solid, and I lose consciousness...

When I come to, two Signs appear before my mind's eye.

The first is the "Plague Banisher" achievement. An adamantium entry! It is granted for the destruction of the true altar of Nulgle, the God of disease and decay. The bonus from this achievement is a Talent Star in Light and affinity with this primal Power!

Strange. Before I thought it was impossible to have affinities with different, almost opposing, Powers, but now I have two. One with Shadow for "Shadow Leader" and now another with Light for "Plague Banisher." I don't understand why I would need this since I wasn't interested in Antares' magic at all in the last Cycle. But nevertheless, this combination looks promising! Nobody expects a person who used Shadow to cast a Light spell. They're almost opposites!

The second Sign is a curse. Nulgle's curse. "Curse of the Plague Seed," written on my Core with mithril. If the gods hadn't fallen, this entry would have been made with adamantium. The "Curse of the Plague Seed" promises me that any disease I catch, even a common cold, will immediately become deadly and incurable. And when I die, my body will rise as a zombie and become a spreader of the Divine Plague and a harbinger of the zombie apocalypse. This curse lasts a year. And if I somehow manage not to die within this year, Nulgle will forgive me and grant me his Gift. The Gift of healing from any disease.

Well, for any inhabitant of Ain, this would have been a death sentence. As for me, protected by the immunity of the "Pure Palm," I couldn't care less about this curse. I knew from the start what the punishment would be like. I knew that I was risking nothing by destroying the altar. Still, "memory of the future" is indeed very useful. Sometimes it holds truly amazing knowledge, such as that the "past me" read entries from the "Hunters of Darkness" order, describing all the curses that gods inflict when their altars are destroyed. Entries from one of the five True Orders, whose main fortresses are not somewhere on the surface but deep inside the Great Inverted Towers of the Great Seals! These scrolls with "secret knowledge" were somehow obtained by Dice, who, as usual, didn't remember how he did it and gave them to "me" to read.

I open my eyes and get to my feet. I'm swaying and lurching from side to side. This isn't so much the consequence of a mild concussion as it is the effect of an overflowing Core. This has happened to me before - after receiving the "Pure Palm of Five Empty Fingers." Logically, I need to Elevate now, without leaving outside, and only then get new achievements for Resetting the Plague dungeon. That would be much more beneficial, but I don't know how long I've been unconscious and how long the Elevation will take. If I miscalculate, I won't fit into the twelve-hour timeframe and will be erased. And that would be the most ridiculous death! I would call it death by greed.

Not wanting to tempt myself, I picked up the steel swords left by the orc warrior and quickly strode toward the exit of the dungeon. Since I didn't know how much time I had left, I didn't look for any more valuables but went straight to the Door. Perhaps I missed something, but life is more precious than loot.

With that thought and a heavy sigh, I laid my hand on the Gate. Immediately, all the achievements I had obtained during this run were inscribed on my Core.

Reardane ink for a solo passage through the Defiled dungeon at a rank higher than mine. And a valirium entry for defeating a boss who was formally of Wootz rank. Both the former and the latter, of course, are not mithril ink, but these entries still carry the colors of the heroic coil of the Great Spiral.

My "Determination" also increased to twenty! And "Perseverance" reached seventeen, which is the level of the heroic coil, no less. There were a bunch of other minor and irrelevant entries, but only these held real value and weight.

My Core, already brimming, started to crack, unable to withstand the pressure of the energies swelling within. I immediately pushed forward and found myself outside the dungeon. Every second was precious. Without wasting time, I pulled a vial of "Easy Step" powder from my alchemical bag and quickly swallowed it, not even bothering to drink something with it. As soon as the intense bitterness of this mixture spread throughout my mouth, I fell to my knees and sank into meditation.

This time, I prepared for the Elevation. Miranda was right, and so was Ender; they were both right in their fear of the Elevation. It feels as though you are dissolved in eternal Nothingness, and you must first find yourself, then reassemble anew.

And the experience of past Elevations is irrelevant. Every time, you do it anew because who you are today is not who you were yesterday or will be tomorrow. And if your Core is overflowing and literally breaking under the pressure of energies, then your "I" does not simply dissolve - it flies apart into Nothingness, like the Big Bang! Try reassembling yourself into a whole after that!

But I managed...

When I opened my eyes, Dairin was already leisurely floating across the sky. It turns out I had spent more than a day on Gnur. It's time to return to the "Defector" and demand my reward from this lover of exciting stories! Oh, how surprised he will be when he sees me alive!

With that thought in mind, I rose to my feet, smiling. I adjusted my equipment, took my spear in hand, and turned to the shore.

I turned and froze as if petrified, and the smile immediately slid off my face.

"Damn you, Sidhe bastard!" I shouted in anger.

There was no trace of the "Defector" near the island's shore.